Scottish Highlands

August, 1318

 

“I dinnae ken what ye’re talking about.”

The alehouse owner standing before Logan crossed his arms over his portly belly and shifted his weight on his feet.

The man was lying. Even disregarding the tightness around his mouth and the way his dark eyes kept shifting away from Logan, it simply didn’t make sense that the alehouse owner wouldn’t have heard of King Robert the Bruce’s Bodyguard Corps.

Kirk MacLeod had told Logan that the Bodyguard Corps, the group of elite warriors working at the King of Scotland’s bidding to protect those most vulnerable to the underhanded attacks of the English, had a training camp not far from Roslin Castle.

Logan had ridden all the way to the farthest northeast corner of the Highlands, carefully skirting Mackenzie land to reach the Sinclair clan holding. And now he stood in the village not far from the castle, only to be told that the alehouse owner—a man who knew the entire village’s business and would certainly have knowledge of a band of fierce Highland warriors training nearby—had never heard of the Bodyguard Corps.

Logan dragged in a breath through clenched teeth, but before he could question the man further, a soft tug on his tunic sleeve stopped him.

Mairin stood close behind him, her dove-gray eyes beseeching. She didn’t speak, but her plea to get out of the alehouse, which had begun to fill now that the sun kissed the horizon outside, was clear as day.

Something in Logan’s chest softened even as his stomach cinched into a knot. When he’d returned to the Highlands seeking a safe place for his sister, an alehouse on Sinclair land had not been what he’d had in mind.

“Come on, Little Bird,” Logan said quietly, folding his hand around Mairin’s smaller one.

As they strode from the alehouse, Mairin huddled closer to Logan’s side. They’d drawn quite a few curious stares, no doubt in part because of Logan’s questions about the Bodyguard Corps. Aye, the people of this village knew something, but they weren’t willing to share it with a man who was clearly an outsider—Highlander or nay.

But it was more than that. A few of the young men’s gazes lingered on Mairin as they made their way to the door. Logan gritted his teeth, but he managed not to accidentally crush Mairin’s hand in his by clenching his fists. His sister was no longer the wee lass he’d remembered from eleven years past. She had become a young woman over the course of those terrible, dark years.

Logan glowered at any man who dared glance their way until they were at last through the alehouse’s door and out into the cool, fading light of evening. He released Mairin’s hand, but she remained close to his side.

Shite. What was he going to do now? Had Kirk MacLeod been mistaken about the Corps’ location?

A darker fear crept in at the edges of Logan’s mind. Mayhap he wasn’t welcome after all—in the Corps, in the Highlands, or even in Scotland. Was that why no one in this damned village would help him?

Logan worked his jaw as the last of the day’s light slipped away and gloaming began to fall. He couldn’t simply stand there like a fool. Mairin was counting on him. He’d promised to get her somewhere safe—truly safe—and he could not fail her. Not again.

“Dinnae fash, Little Bird,” he said, plastering a reassuring smile on his face. “We’ll find an inn for the night. Mayhap the innkeeper will ken—”

Out of the corner of his eye, Logan saw a flash of gold in the blue twilight. A man with a mane of blond hair rode toward the village from the northeast—where Roslin Castle sat perched over the sea.

The man slowed his horse to a walk as he entered the village. A few people moving along the main street tipped their heads to him in greeting, and he did the same.

It was then that Logan noticed the blue and green checked plaid around the rider’s hips and over his shoulder. MacKay colors. What the hell was a MacKay doing on Sinclair land—and being greeted warmly by these villagers, no less?

Logan squinted through the falling light at the man’s face. Recognition jolted through him like a bolt of lightning. He’d seen this man before.

His mind flew back to that night in the Borderlands more than ten months past. He’d found Kirk MacLeod speaking in hushed tones with the leonine man riding toward him at this very moment—Colin MacKay.

Aye, there was no mistaking him. Logan hastily ducked his head and turned away as Colin rode by, his mind racing.

Colin knew Kirk, and Kirk was the only soul in the world Logan would call friend. But although Kirk might trust Colin, Logan was no comrade of the fierce MacKay warrior.

The last time they’d met all those months ago, Logan had been working for the Order of the Shadow as a bounty hunter. He’d been a traitor to his countrymen, a mercenary selling his skills to the English bounty hunter league. Though Kirk had assured Logan that he would have a place in the Bodyguard Corps if he ever set foot in the Highlands again, Colin had made no such promise.

Still, Colin was a member of the Corps. And here he was, riding through Roslin village. The training camp must be close, and Colin would know where it was.

Logan grabbed Mairin’s hand once more and strode swiftly toward the horse he’d left tethered behind the alehouse. He swung into the saddle, but when he reached down for Mairin, he found his sister’s eyes round with alarm.

“It’s all right,” he said. “That man will lead us to the place I seek. Then we can get settled at last.”

She hesitated another moment, but finally she extended her arms toward him.

He lifted her slight frame easily and swung her into the saddle behind him. Her thin arms wrapped around his torso as he nudged his horse into a walk.

Logan’s gaze landed on Colin’s golden head just before it disappeared into the trees at the edge of the village. He squeezed the horse’s flanks to urge him on after the MacKay warrior.

As they rode through the trees behind Colin, Logan carefully maintained his distance and clung to the shadows. Blessedly, the rapidly falling darkness gave them some cover, as did a gentle breeze that ruffled the branches overhead and obscured their noise. Colin’s hair shone like a polished gold coin even in the low light, allowing Logan to hang well back.

The villagers’ refusal to speak and Colin’s night-dark trek through the woods made sense the more Logan thought on it. Kirk had said that the Corps trained near Roslin Castle, but as the King of Scotland’s most valuable and trusted warriors, they wouldn’t shout their exact location to the entire world. Like the Compound, where the bounty hunters employed by the Order of the Shadow trained, the Corps’ camp was likely tucked away in some dense, isolated forest. And Roslin’s villagers were protective of their secret, understanding the importance of the knowledge of the Corps’ training camp.

Ahead, Colin slowed his horse, drawing Logan from his thoughts. Logan did the same, careful to hug the trees’ swaying shadows. They must be close to the camp now.

When Colin drew to a complete halt, Logan let his horse walk on, the animal’s hoof-falls muted against the soft forest floor. He closed the distance slowly, all the while watching Colin, but the man didn’t move or turn to look behind him.

This must be it—the Bodyguard Corps’ camp. Surely this was the safest place in all of England or Scotland. Surrounded by warriors who’d dedicated their lives to protecting those targeted by the English, Mairin could at last feel safe. She would no longer have to—

A shrill whistle pierced the night air. Colin suddenly reined his horse around hard and dug in his heels, charging directly at them. Mairin’s fingers sank into Logan’s torso and a strangled cry of terror ripped from her throat.

Without thinking, Logan flung the reins into his left hand and flicked his right wrist. One of his throwing daggers dropped into his palm from its sheath around his forearm. He didn’t want to hurt Colin, but if he attacked Mairin, Logan would act without remorse.

So focused was he on Colin charging right at them that Logan hardly noticed Mairin tugging on his tunic until she was frantically yanking at the material. For one dangerous heartbeat, he tore his gaze away from Colin and swept the surrounding forest.

Two figures materialized from the shadows, one to his left and one to his right.

He didn’t have the space or time to pull his horse around and spur him toward the darkened forest behind them. Logan dropped the reins all together and flicked his left hand, bringing forth another small, sharp dagger. Aye, he could take down three men before they could lay a finger on Mairin, some distant part of his brain reasoned. He hadn’t come here to kill, but he would if it meant Mairin’s safety.

Before him, Colin reined in his horse at the last possible moment. As the animal skidded to a halt, Colin unsheathed a long, glinting sword from his hip in one fluid movement.

“What do we have here?” he murmured, his sharp eyes glittering in the low light.

Suddenly Colin inhaled, recognition flitting across his face.

“Logan Mackenzie,” he said slowly, his gaze turning hard. “I never thought to see yer traitorous arse again.”